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When You Really Have To Go

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I’m sure you have at least once in your life had one of those occasions where you really have to go and you know that there is no way you are going to make it home without going. You know what I mean, we have all been there.

A lot of people almost have an immortal fear of using a public toilet, not just because it’s been used by strangers and might be dirty, but most people like to do their business in private. Yes, I can see you nodding your head in agreement. Well, this wasn’t one of those occasions…

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day for me. The traffic had been awful, the computer was playing up again, I had to deal with incompetent coworkers and my back was sore. All of those factors combined had put me in a really bad mood.

But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I had last taken a dump.

I had tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a large bowl of bran cereal which was full of fibre. I followed that with six cups of coffee at work. Then, for lunch, I had a bean laden Burrito at Taco Bell. I thought to myself, “if this doesn’t make me go, I’m in trouble”.

Well, as I was driving home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon.

Unfortunately, I had to stop at the mall on my way home to collect something that my wife had ordered.

I picked up the order from the department store, but as I was walking past the other stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign tht read, “Everything Must Go!”

This was astoundingly prophetic, for my colon informed me then and there with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms, trying to walk as fast as I could without running, and squeezing my cheeks together with some desperation as I did so.

When I reached the bathroom, I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

  1. Occupied.
  2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.
  3. Shit smeared on seat.
  4. Shit and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
  5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2, the lesser of the evils.

I entered the stall, locked the door, dropped my trousers and sat down.

I’m normally very shy about going to the toilet and much prefer to do things in private, so naturally I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot and there was nothing that I could do about it.

I was just getting ready to begin the proceedings, when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by fumbling noises and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone.

As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8dB louder than it needed to be.

Out of habit when I am embarrassed, my sphincter slammed shut.

The insane conversation in the next stall just went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, just waiting for him to finish so I could start.

As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public.

My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall and pushed with all my might.

I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude. Now how to describe this colossal fart. It was a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and that of plywood being torn off a wall. It was nothing short of an epic fart, a monumental ripsnorter.

The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low growling tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I miraculously managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:

  • The next-door conversation had ceased
  • My colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come and
  • The bathroom was now beset by a horrible, unbearable stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened.

The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking the fellow in the stall next door.

This initial “herald” fart had quickly ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

“Oh my God”, I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth.

I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot.

The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force.

Later, in surveying the damage, I would see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor, but for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task.

Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony:

“Gotta go… horrible… throw up… in my mouth… not… make it…tell the kids… love them… oh God…”

This was followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

As you are almost certainly aware, it is practically impossible to hold your phone and wipe your bum at the same time.

Just as my high pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. The guy in the stall next door had obviously dropped his phone into the toilet in his panic to try and get out of there as soon as he could.

There was a brief lull in my production and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do.

A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water.

That must have been the last straw, because I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage.

I felt bad for the janitor who would be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the stall next door.

Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one.

I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous companion.

I think it will be a long time before he can bring himself to shit in public again and I doubt he will ever again answer his cell phone while on the toilet.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

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